There Are Chapters In Every Life Which

The Silence Is Perfect, And Yet A Torment.

Happiness Is The Lucky Pane Of Glass You Carry In Your Head. It Takes All Your Cunning Just To Hang On To It, And Once It's Smashed You Have To Move Into A Different Sort Of Life.

It's Hard Work Being A Person, You Have To Do It Every Single Day.

Bookish People, Who Are Often Maladroit People, Persist In Thinking They Can Master Any Subtlety So Long As It's Been Shaped Into Acceptable Expository Prose.

So This Is Where The Years Of Maturity Deliver Us - To This Needy, Selfish, Unwieldy Wish To Be Somebody Else's First And Primal Other.